


Singin' in the Rain Ficlets

by Todesengel



Category: Singin' in the Rain (1952)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Todesengel/pseuds/Todesengel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various, unconnected Singin' In the Rain ficlets</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fit as a Fiddle

It's cold wherever the hell they are, and yet Cos is still playing. His fingers are flying up and down the keyboard of the battered piano as if they can't feel the bitter chill that seeps in through all the cracks and chinks of the 'theatre' they're performing in. Some theatre; it's just a converted barn, with quilts strung up to separate the audience from the chaos of backstage. Out of the corner of his eye Don watches Cos play, and he can't help the little bit of guilt that curls in his belly; Cos always was the better musician, the one with actual talent. He should be playing in sold out concert halls, Don thinks, not crummy barns.

Cos hits the last measure of the intro and Don stops thinking about anything except performing.

"Fit as a fiddle and ready for love," they sing. And it's going great until they hit the tap-dancing bit, which is when the E-string of Cos's violin snaps, twanging loudly, flying up and leaving a long, red welt on his cheek. The audience laughs and they keep going, transposing down on the fly, because the show must go on if they want to eat.

They get booed off the stage at the end of the song, like always, but Don doesn't care this time. There's blood on Cos's collar, and they should have stopped the number.

"Don't worry, Don. I've got another E-string here somewhere. My fiddle'll be perfectly fit for tomorrow's show." Cos is rummaging around in his violin case, and nobody is paying any attention to him.

"Your fiddle?" Don isn't sure if he wants to hit Cos or hug him, right now. "Who cares about your fiddle? Let me see your face." He pulls Cos into the light and tilts his head to the side.

"Your hands are cold," Cos grumbles.

"Hold still." It's not as bad as he thought, and Don is grateful for that, but when they're this close he can see the exhaustion in Cos's eyes. He's skinnier, too, and Don can't help but wonder why he didn't see what this life was doing to Cos before this.

"Let's go to California," he says, suddenly. "To Hollywood. Come on."

"What? Tonight?"

"Why not?" It's crazy, Don knows this, but he doesn't care.

"The show--"

"Who cares?" Don grabs their things, throws Cos's coat at him. "Let's go. Right now."

Cos laughs at him, but Don knows that if he leaves Cos will follow. Because Cos always follows. He's so sure of this that he's already out the door and shivering in the night before Cos has got one arm into his coat. They have enough money for the train, Don thinks, so long as they don't mind missing a few meals.

"I always wanted to be a Hollywood composer," Cos says, and he takes his bag from Don and starts walking to the train station.

"And I will be a movie star." Don grins, even though he knows Cos can't see him. "You can write all my scores."

"Why thank you. Just don't forget about the little people when you're rich and famous."

"Don't worry, Cos, we'll always be together. And when I'm rich, I'll buy you the best damn violin there is."

Cos laughs at that. "Fit as a fiddle," he sings.

"And ready for love."


	2. Nice day for a car ride

The car breaks down on a stretch of winding road that leads up into the hills, and they sit in the shade it casts while they wait for some passing motorist to drive by. It's a hot day, and it's just the two of them, the road empty and silent, but Cos is still surprised when Don slumps against him and puts his hand over Cos's.

"You should get rid of this old thing," Don mumbles, eyes half-closed. "Let me buy you a new one."

"Nah. I like the old girl." And that's not entirely true, because Cos knows his car is more trouble than its worth, always breaking down. But he bought it, with his own money--money he'd scrimped and saved for months, setting aside a dollar here, a dollar there. It is his, in a way that very little in his life actually is. It is his and Don has nothing to do with it, and Cos likes that.

There's so much of Don that Cos can't have. It's nice to have something of his own.


	3. This house is not my home

Cos was waiting by the front door with a towel when Don finally made it home, soaked to the bone even with the protection of his macintosh and still feeling higher than a kite.

"What happened to you?" Cos asked as he peeled away the wet clothes. His hands were warm and they raised goosebumps on Don's chilled skin, and maybe that was why Don grabbed them and danced Cos around the foyer with him, wearing nothing at all and laughing loud and long and joyfully while spraying droplets around the room.

"I was singing. In the rain." Don spun Cos away and instead of returning, Cos stopped himself and threw Don the towel.

"Dry off, before you get pneumonia and I have to explain your death to R.F. Although, if this whole broadway dream thing falls through, maybe we can play up the whole sympathy angle. I can see it now," Cos said, spreading his arms wide as if pantomiming a marquee. "'Lockwood and Lamont's final hour!' I bet hardly anyone'll laugh."

"Cos? What's wrong?" Don wrapped the towel around his waist and grabbed Cosmo's hand, pulled him close. He sat on the edge of a chair and looked up into Cos' face, searching for what he didn't know.

"Nothing. Hey, can I borrow your car tonight?"

"Is something wrong with yours? I keep telling you, Cos, you should just let me buy you a new one."

"It's nothing like that. It's just. Your car has a top, right? I just don't want my stuff to get wet." Cos looked away, even though he still let Don hold onto his hand. "I just feel like staying dry, tonight."

Don followed Cos' gaze and noticed, for the first time, the suitcases that were neatly placed by the front door. "Cos? Where are you going?" And if there was a bit of plaintiveness to his voice, he thought that was understandable.

"Home," Cos said, and he pulled his hand free from Don's and shrugged his jacket on. He grabbed the keys from the side table Don always left them on and picked up one of his suitcases.

"Whaddaya mean, 'home'?" Don stood up and reached out for Cosmo, confused and unsure and coming down off of his high, but Cos didn't reach back, like he usually did, and Don dropped his hand. " _This_ is your home, Cos."

"No, Don," Cos said, and he was smiling, like he always smiled, but Don could see the little cracks of pain that Cos had always kept hidden away leaking through his mask. "It isn't." He grabbed his other suitcase and opened the door. "I'll bring your car back tomorrow."

The door made a hollow thudding noise when it closed, the sound echoing in a house that was far too big for just one person. Don sat down, suddenly, and closed his eyes and let his forehead rest upon his arms, all too aware of just how big his home was and just how small he really was.

He didn't feel like singing any more.


	4. Make 'em Laugh

"Hey Cos, do you ever cry?"

Don's question is just random enough to grate on the edge of Cosmo's consciousness, and he blinks himself awake. If he turns his head, he can see Don, outlined against the star-soaked sky that reaches all the way down to the ground. It's a different world, out here in the middle of bum-fuck America, and Cos thinks that maybe this is why Don asked such an odd question when he was supposed to be asleep.

"Of course," he replies anyway. "Everybody cries."

"It's just." Don rolls over, with a rustling of grass and the accompanying smell of new green things being crushed, and props his chin up on his hand. "I never see you cry."

If they were standing, Cos would have shrugged, but since they're not he yawns instead and closes his eyes. "I cry all the time. Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it doesn't happen."

He blinks, slowly, and pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders. There's a rock digging into the small of his back, but he thinks he can ignore it; the ground is no worse than the beds in some of the places they've stayed, lately, and at least there aren't any fleas.

He's almost asleep when Don wraps an arm around him, having apparently decided that Cos' patch of ground is less lump than his and that Cos' chest would make an excellent pillow. "You know," Don mumbles into his ear. "You don't always have to smile."

Cosmo looks sideways on Don's face, at his closed eyes, at the good looks that were inevitably the only thing that lands them a gig, and thinks about what his father told him. About how it's never how good he is at the piano, or how well he dances, but at how much he made the audience laugh that garners him praise. "No Don," he says, even though he knows Don can't hear him. "I always do."


	5. Hiding in Shadows

It used to be that they'd do this whenever they had fifteen minutes of privacy. Now, they only do it in the dark – in dark alleys, in dark sets, in dark storerooms filled with dusty costumes and ancient props. Dark places out of the sight of the glaring brightness of spotlights and cameras, out of the sight of the eternal sunshine and the polished men they pretended to be.

It's safe in the shadows, where rough accents from across the ocean of land can emerge once more, and Don can tremble as Cos caresses him with the rough hands of menial labor, agile fingers sliding underneath silk shirts, into fine, linen trousers.

"Cos, Cos," Don pants, in his lowborn tones and the brick wall is rough against Cosmo's shoulder blades, and here, in this hidden place, it's almost like the old days had been – just the two of them and the world against them, owning nothing more than a song and a smile.


End file.
